


Pine and Boysenberries

by NETHERW4RT



Series: Blurry City Lights, Heavy Eyelids, and Polyester Skin [2]
Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Camping, Comfort, Dancing, Developing Relationship, Falling In Love, Flirting, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Hanging Out, Kissing, Love Confessions, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Mutual Pining, Past Lives, Pining, Romance, Songfic, Soulmates, Teasing, ah yes my brand :), an implied thing really, brain goes brrrrrr, but not really?, in which i try to be poetic but it doesnt really work out, theyre just gay and in love thats it lol
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-06
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-15 04:27:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29308008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NETHERW4RT/pseuds/NETHERW4RT
Summary: We may only have tonight,But till the morning sun you're mine, all mine.Play the music low and sway to the rhythm of love.
Relationships: Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF)
Series: Blurry City Lights, Heavy Eyelids, and Polyester Skin [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2145126
Comments: 15
Kudos: 108
Collections: DNF Spotify Playlist





	Pine and Boysenberries

**Author's Note:**

> [rhythm of love - plain white t’s](https://youtu.be/JWiwuiT58Yc)

_“What does it feel like to love?”_

_Dream smiles, shifting in the warm summer grass and letting his eyes follow the lazy path of clouds in the sky. “It’s fun,” he says. “Scary, but fun. You can’t stop thinking about them.” He looks to the side, trailing the porcelain features of George’s cheekbones, jawline, all the way down to his exposed collarbone. He’s glowing white-gold under the clear afternoon sunlight. “You think of them in every situation, every little moment,” he continues, honey-dipped fondness coating his words. “The world pales in comparison to them, but you would give it to them if they only asked.”_

_George hums as he takes it all in. “Would you?” He asks in a whisper. “Would you give the world to someone?”_

_He swallows thickly. “I would,” Dream answers firmly, blades of grass tickling his cheek as flax strands fall over his eyes. He shuts them, inhaling a shallow breath. “I would give it to you.”_

  
  
  
  


The sun peeks through thick-layered clouds in the late morning, melting orange and yellow across the brightening sky. 

“It’s hot,” George declares simply, beads of sweat gluing tufts of hazelnut hair to his forehead. He’s lying face-up in the soft grass of Dream’s backyard, half-heartedly holding a popsicle between his lips. It’s melting red into his skin, staining dark against the usual coral color. His free hand messily tangles in the grass and twirls loose blades around his fingers. Dream looks at him from across the fenced-off area, kneeling in dirt that coats the palms of his hands.

“It’s the middle of June,” he scoffs playfully, “of course it’s hot.” A few more stray weeds are plucked from the earth, replaced with tight-packed flower bundles and fresh soil. Marigolds. Dream absentmindedly picks out small, white circles from around the roots for no other reason than to roll them between his forefinger and thumb.

“I underestimated the Floridian heat.”

“That’ll get you,” Dream mutters through a chuckle. He flicks the orb from his fingers and back into the dirt. A trowel, gloves, formerly-used pots, and other things are all strewn about; he scoops up the miscellaneous items and carefully carries them over to the glass table near the back door. The items clatter haphazardly against the thick pane and Dream slides them together towards the middle. “You brought a lot of jackets, too. It’s a shame.”

George rolls his eyes unbeknownst to Dream. “I didn’t think it was going to be _this_ bad,” he complains, crunching cherry-flavored ice under his teeth. “It’s, like, hotter than the depths of hell.”

“You should’ve expected that, Georgie,” Dream snorts. “You were well aware of how much closer you were traveling towards the equator.”

The Brit stirs and sits up, peering at Dream from across the yard. The sun beats down on his skin, drawing light red colors to the surface. He rubs mindlessly against the underside of the wrist holding tight to a wooden popsicle stick; it drips down the back of his hand, droplets trailing lines of red across the white canvas of his flesh. “I underestimated,” he repeats painfully.

Raising his brows, the blond clicks open the cooler set beside the table and pulls out a popsicle for himself. He peels the wrapping open and grumbles in slight disappointment at the dark purple color. _Sure, whatever,_ he thinks, _grape isn’t the worst flavor. This is fine_. He wanders over to George and plops down into the unoccupied dip of grass to his left. 

“Could be worse,” he says. “You wanna do something about it?”

George scoffs, sarcasm dripping off his words. “Like what, going skinny-dipping in the ocean?” 

Dream grins, short bubbles of laughter shaking his shoulders. “That doesn’t sound too bad,” he answers, only half-joking, “but no. We could do something—something _unique_.”

“Unique,” George echoes, swapping the popsicle from one hand to another. He raises an eyebrow and looks expectantly at Dream. A small gust of wind temporarily relieves him of the hazy beatdown of the sun.

“Unique,” the other urges, a grin tugging at the corners of his lips. “There’s a nice little cliff side,” he says, pulling up his hand to lick away dripping purple flavor, “that resides over the ocean. It’s got a pretty open edge right off the forest.”

“Where are you going with this?”

“We could go on a little trip,” Dream explains excitedly. A cloud passes over the sun again, slowly, languidly, and it’s another minuscule break from intense heat; it doesn’t last long. “Clear out the van, use it as a faux-tent. We could go camping, but not really. Only for a day or two.”

A hum draws out of George, uncertain of whether it was drawn from Dream’s words or the way he shifted in the grass. “That’s a shitty idea,” he settles after a passing moment of silence. They burst into quiet laughter before Dream knocks his shoulder against George’s, only mildly disgusted by the sweaty limb making contact with the sleeve of his shirt.

“You’re an idiot,” he says fondly.

“An idiot with common sense,” George quips. Dream smiles and rolls his eyes. “ _But_ ,” he continues, catching the blond’s gaze with his own, “it sounds fun. Completely idiotic, but fun.” 

The buzz of insects fills the air as Dream breaks off the top of his popsicle and pops it into his mouth. George’s nose scrunches up, but he says nothing—he can’t really, when his hands are covered with sticky, melted, blood-colored candy. He pulls the remaining pieces, barely held together as they are, off the stick and into his mouth; the sensation is cool against his tongue, if not a bit _too_ sweet.

“Glad you’re on board, then.” Dream reaches over and snatches up a stray chunk of the popsicle sliding off its wooden stick. He hums as it melts in his mouth. “Better than grape,” he points out. George’s eyes fall to his lips, tinted purple and faintly, newly, red along the bottom.

If Dream notices the way his gaze lingers a moment too long, he says nothing of it.

  
  
  
  


_It’s warm. The heat is tolerable this time around. Grass and open, blue skies stretch as far as the eye can see. Dream watches the summer sun fall below the horizon, trailing pretty colors in its wake—a ripple in the darkening navy ocean above._

_“The sunset is always pretty,” a voice pipes up from beside him; Dream takes in the movement of his own body, foreign as individual fingers twitch into consciousness. George sits, cross-legged, in the grass and thumbs absentmindedly around the stem of a flower. A daisy._

_“It is,” Dream finds himself saying. His eyes don’t leave George, instead drinking in the curves of light glistening over the edges of his skin and the way it paints him as otherworldly. “You are,” he breathes._

_George turns his head, stardust and sunlight glimmering behind his irises and swimming in the golden-brown space around them. “I am?” He presses, smiling, leaning. The gap is closing, drawing him nearer. Together._

_“You are,” he repeats, tasting heavy, pearly tears on the tip of his tongue._

  
  
  
  


They head out later that evening, compelled by gnawing boredom and unhelpful peer pressure on Dream’s part. The sun is only just beginning its descent from high above the clouds, weaving in and out in molasses-like motions. 

“Ta-da!” Dream cheers, throwing his arms out towards the open side door of his van. It’s relatively empty, favoring a large inflatable mattress and small divots of space behind the front seats where he tactfully placed a cooler full of sodas and (very few) beer cans. There’s not much else; they had only decided to stay one night, which was arguably the best decision they had made within the past week.

“It’s... _something_.” George steps forward, presses his fingers against the mattress, which gives slightly at the pressure, but not enough to be concerned about, and frowns. There’s a blanket folded up against the far side of the van’s walls and he assumes they’ll be sleeping under that, but the texture of the mattress and how the blanket looks is less than comforting. “You’re cheap,” he decides.

“What? Oh, come on,” Dream scoffs, “this is the best I’ve got! Grab your shit and get in already.” He moves past George and pulls the door shut. The handle is a bit more than warm under his palm.

George settles into the passenger seat with a roll of his eyes and shifts against the sticky leather seat. His brow furrows in slight discomfort, then winces at the sharp heat of the metal seatbelt. He grimaces, tries again, hurriedly clicking it into place. Dream can’t help but laugh as he settles into the opposite seat, less uncomfortable than the brunet but still discontent about the sweltering sun. 

“Careful,” he teases.

“You could’ve said that beforehand, maybe.”

“I didn’t know I had to baby you.” Dream grins at the way George’s lips curl further downward until the skin is creasing as if he was aging much too rapidly for the features to catch up. He wants to reach out and smooth away the wrinkles with his thumb, but resigns to wrapping his palms around the soft velvet cover of the steering wheel instead. 

The drive is mundane; the radio service cuts in and out, choppy renditions of popular songs blasting out the radio. George complains for almost the entire drive, if not for the few precious moments where he would turn towards the window in silence and let the wind rush over his face and spill his bangs back oh so beautifully.

It’s a far drive, so much so that the trees become denser and faded between thin palm trees to thick, heavy pine trees. The air is cooler as well, much to George’s pleasure. Ears popping and breath stirring, he leans out of the window for the last time and inhales the rich scent of pine and something like fresh rain.

  
  
  
  


_Droplets of water crash against the wooden planks of a pier, bouncing off and flying in every direction. Dream’s legs sway above the crystal surface of a lake, circles pulsing throughout. He laughs and kicks his foot forward, splashing an unsuspecting George with a small wave._

_Reasonably, he shrieks and swivels around. “Dream!”_

_“George,” Dream returns through quiet laughter. He slides forward off the pier and slips into the water below; it’s cool, refreshing against his warm skin. “Little bit of water in your hair scare you?”_

_“You’re an ass.”_

_Dream hums and flicks at the surface, another few droplets splaying towards George. “You love me,” he challenges, eyes glistening in the heated afternoon sun. It reflects onto the water, bright shapes swirling over the surface._

_The Brit promptly rolls his eyes. “I guess you’ll never know,” he says, playfully splashing back at Dream with a smile that creases inward at his cheeks. Pink dusts across the skin, where Dream stares for a moment too long. He tears his eyes away and laughs, wiping the wet off his face._

_“You could tell me.”_

_“I could,” George agrees. “What would you do with my answer?”_

_He pauses. “It depends on your answer,” he confesses slowly, honestly. Dream stills and leans back against the damp wooden pier. The sound of the water lapping against the sandy shore rings loud in his ears. “What do you want me to say?”_

_George’s fingers wrap around his forearms, holding himself tight, holding himself together. “I don’t know.”_

  
  
  
  


A rush of air winds through Dream’s loose t-shirt, tickling the tan skin underneath. The sky is clear, less clouds floating along to keep the sun company as it paints the horizon orange and purple. He curls his fingers into his palms, then stretches them out again.

“Tired?”

“No, of course not,” George calls from across the clearing. He’s brushing his palms carefully along the flat side of a log-carved bench; Dream presumes he’s checking for splinters before relaxing into it. The latter eyes the metal cage sitting between the benches and then around the area— _bingo._

A small pile of firewood rests further away, near the fenced-in cliff edge. Dream waltzes over and picks a few logs up under his arms.

“We can start a fire for the night,” he explains, dropping the logs into the open bowl. He adjusts them a bit and then nods in satisfaction. Quietly, he runs his thumb across the dirtied palm of his hand. “We can make it a real party and bring out the marshmallows.”

George snorts and settles back against the cold log. “Sounds like a plan,” he says, a smile passing over his lips. “Wanna stay up?”

“It’s only, like, eight o’clock,” Dream replies, laughing as he lights the fire. It crackles to life, small but determined as it eats away at the large wooden sticks. He dusts off his pants and stretches his torso out afterward. “Sure though, why not? We can leave whenever tomorrow.”

Twinkles of light scatter across the sky with the passing of time, creeping into dark pools of space. George feels the radiating warmth of the fire, somehow appreciating it in the cool air of the night. He figures it will be an odd memory in the morning when he’s sticky with sweat once more.

A bag of marshmallows is torn open and Dream hands a sturdy stick to George, who takes it gratefully, before he’s plopped down right beside him. The former practically torches his marshmallow, the whole exterior turning as black as the shadows flickering over loose dirt and pine wood, while the latter’s is a more golden-brown color. He considers it a win.

“You fucking suck at this,” the Brit giggles as Dream peels the burnt outside off. The rest of the marshmallow is goopy, dripping down the stick in thin, stringy lines. 

“Beginner’s luck?”

“Maybe,” George hums. “Guess you’ll never know.”

“Oh, you are _insufferable_ ,” Dream teases, knocking his shoulder against George’s.

“Am I?”

“One hundred percent.”

An eye roll, then George knocks him back. “You’re no better,” he says.

Laughter fills the open air, echoing in the dusky sky. Time wraps around itself, looping and curving unintelligibly until the moon is peeking past where the sun has vanished. Used chocolate wrappers and empty marshmallow bags are tossed neatly into a nearby garbage can. Dream watches George and how the cool blue washing over his hair contrasts between the harsh orange over his cheekbones. He’s enthralled by every sip of skin and every star in his eyes, staring only a moment too long when the Brit laughs; _the way his eyes crinkle at the edges is totally unfair_ , Dream thinks. He’s like a fallen angel—perhaps holier.

“Oh, I know,” George pipes up, snapping Dream out of his silent fantasy. “I brought my guitar—put it in the trunk earlier. Is it okay if I play something?”

“I’d love to hear it,” the blond replies. His smile tugs so far up his face it looks painful. Tan palms press flat against the cool side of the log bench, leaning back ever so slightly as George stands and makes his way to the van. He pulls the side door open enough for a makeshift seat, then allows himself to get comfortable and pluck a few notes. The sound is welcome amongst the quiet rush of wind, crackle of fire, and chirping of insects.

He plays a slow tune, fingers strumming as if he were plucking around in Dream’s chest. It’s unfamiliar to Dream’s ears but he doesn’t mind one bit, simply swaying along to the gentle rhythm. Then he begins, shyly, singing a song and Dream feels like he’s floating, reaching for the fucking heavens with every syllable that falls out of George’s mouth like he was kissed by the gods themselves.

  
  
  
  


_“Your hands are pretty,” George mumbles, the cool heat of Dream’s palm radiating into his own. It’s all he can do not to lace their fingers together and hold tight, never letting go. “I like them.”_

_“That’s an odd compliment,” Dream remarks. “I’m not complaining, though.” He hums, low and throaty, while George leans into his shoulder. He’s the one who stops time, curls his fingers over Dream’s and lets his heart do the talking. It’s a quiet moment, fragile and curious, so easily broken that neither of them say anything for a long while. They sit there, knees and shoulders pressed together, fingers interlocked, and simply bathe in the company of the other._

_When George sighs, Dream lifts his head to search for something in his large, doe eyes. They seem to hold the world, yet all he sees is a reflection of himself._

_“George?” He asks, voice small and almost reaching shy._

_“I think you’re too much for me,” the Brit says, “in the best way possible. It’s like I want to hold onto you—onto_ this _—and never let it go.”_

_Dream swallows back the dryness in his mouth. “You don’t—you don’t have to let go,” he offers. “I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”_

_The golden-brown color in his eyes seems to flicker, and suddenly they look wet, threatening to spill over his eyelids and send stardust cascading down his perfectly pale cheeks. “Promise?” He whispers._

_“Promise.”_

  
  
  
  


“Let’s dance,” Dream suggests suddenly, the rhythm of George’s fingers stuttering over the guitar strings. The latter looks up, bewildered, eyes wide and cheeks pink.

“What?”

“We can dance,” Dream repeats with growing enthusiasm. He stands and drags himself over to George, pushing the door of the van open further to make more room. The radio, earlier forgotten amongst the strum of the guitar, is pulled to the edge of the car and turned on; it’s barely functional, staticky and broken up, but Dream twists the knob until it _finally_ clicks on a station that doesn’t sound like it was swallowed up by a whole different dimension. “It’ll be fun!”

George hums amusedly. “I guess you _did_ say the same thing about this whole trip. It hasn’t been that bad so far,” he says, tucking away his guitar in its case and returning it to the trunk. He pauses a moment, letting the music wiggle its way into his eardrums. “You’re a sap.”

“I didn’t choose it, it’s the only one that was on!” Dream giggles in protest.

George sighs and rolls his eyes, taking the hand Dream offers him; he allows himself to be pulled close, flush against a firm yet comfortable chest and swayed along to the rhythm with their fingers interlocked on one end and Dream’s palm over his hip on the other. “We’re dancing to a _love song_ ,” he deadpans after a moment of silence—not uncomfortable, though still thick with caution. “I don’t hate it,” he adds quietly.

Dream twirls George around and laughs when he comes crashing back against his chest to sturdy himself. “You’re not supposed to hate it,” he says, ignoring the way George glares at him. His cheeks are dusted red and the blond can feel the way his heart is beating through his chest thanks to their close proximity. “Nervous?”

“Only a little,” George scoffs. “I’m not a good dancer.”

“You don’t have to be. I’ll guide you along.”

And Dream does just that, allowing the Brit to match his pace and follow his footsteps. They fumble and sway and find their way around each other awkwardly, but they’re smiling and laughing and holding each other and that’s all that matters. Dream notices the way George’s eyes sparkle when he smiles, moonlight washing over his features so beautifully that he might as well have been dipped in the cool blue colors. He looks ethereal, otherworldly, and every definition of fucking _stunning_ that Dream can possibly come up with. 

The dance is certainly not perfect, occasional stumbling and all inexperience. The radio doesn’t help much either, channel flickering with the wind or a shift in the van when they accidentally knock back against it (George is adamant on it being Dream’s fault, which, in truth, he doesn’t mind much). 

He pulls George back when the song fades out, basking in the glory of his smile and how he looks majestic and how Dream would give anything in the world to see him this happy all the time. His hands rest quietly over the brunet’s hips and his lie over Dream’s chest. 

“Dream?” George asks softly, cheeks burning from how hard he’s smiling but no longer subjected to his earlier fits of laughter. 

“George,” Dream returns, just as soft. He’s smiling too, swept away by how utterly in love he is with George and how he ever managed to shove these feelings down in the first place. His gaze flicks down to George’s lips and he sucks in a breath. “Can I kiss you?”

“You...can.”

His heart skips a beat.

George is everything he expected and more, tasting like love itself on his lips. It’s slow and they dance around each other in a different kind of way, this time. His hands trail up to cup his pretty, pale cheeks and hold him there, just a moment longer, before they part. Dream stares at George and watches the reflection of the galaxy swirl in his eyes.

The Brit stares back, silently thumbing around the collar of Dream’s shirt. He pauses for a moment, glances down at the dirt under their shoes, smiles again, and lightly pushes him away. “Goodnight, Dream,” he says simply.

Dream watches him turn and climb into the van, half-stunned, and click off the radio. George chuckles to himself as the door slides shut, leaving the blond out in the brisk, open air and under the light of the moon.

Grinning, he thinks about how _stupid_ George is going to look when he crawls onto the mattress next to him in a few hours. 

  
  
  
  


_“I love you, George.”_

_George smiles and takes Dream’s hand into his own. It’s warm. Warmer than he can ever put into words. “I love you too, Dream,” he responds._

_The phrase sends flowers blooming all throughout the field, sprouting up and bursting open with color. The Brit figures it’s exactly how Dream feels._

_“I love you,” Dream repeats like the fondest broken record George has ever heard. He’s dripping with affection and enthusiasm. “I love you so much.”_

_“I know, Dream.” George carefully kisses the back of Dream’s hand and laughs when he notices how the blond’s lips are tugging so wide they practically are about to fall off his face. “You’re so silly.”_

_“But I love you! I love it when you do this—when you’re like this.”_

_“Only this part?”_

_“All of it,” Dream corrects quickly. “I love all of it—all of you. I just happen to also love when you’re affectionate back.”_

_George hums and raises an eyebrow. “You’re like a dog,” he comments. “I don’t know why I fell for a dog of a man.”_

_Dream snorts and pulls George into his arms, catching him by the waist. “You know you love it,” he teases, pressing kisses along the side of his neck. George only laughs and leans into it._

_He can’t disagree._

  
  
  
  


He’s crying when Dream blinks his eyes open. George is across from him, head resting under his forearm and trembling. His lips are quivering and his fingertips twitch every so often from where they’re curled up into himself.

“George?” Dream calls quietly, pulling him closer until he’s flush against his chest. “I’m here.”

Gasping, the Brit’s eyes snap open. He dazedly looks up into Dream’s face, tracing the familiarity over and over until he’s certain that this is reality and not some faux daydream that will send him plunging into another nightmare. 

“Dream?”

“I’m here,” the blond repeats. He presses a quick kiss into the top of George’s head and smiles when he leans into it. Tears are drying on his cheeks and Dream can’t help but wipe them away with the pad of his thumb. “You alright?”

“I am now,” George mumbles. “Thank you. Sorry.”

“Sorry? What for?”

“For—for crying. For needing you to comfort me,” he explains, gnawing on his bottom lip.

Dream frowns. “Don’t,” he says. “Don’t apologize for that. I’ll always be here if you need me to be, George. I—you know I love you.”

George flicks his eyes downward. “I know.”

Dream carefully takes one of George’s hands in his own and kisses each fingertip until he’s giggling and turning bright red. He smiles lazily, locking their fingers together and turning over so that the brunet is still in his arms, lying across his chest now instead of curled up into it.

“You’re an idiot,” George says fondly.

“I’m _your_ idiot,” Dream corrects. 

“Oh, so now you’re _mine_ , is that it?”

“If you want me to be,” he says. “I want you, Georgie.”

George scoffs, lacking any kind of anger or venom. “I don’t just kiss anyone, _Dreamy_.”

“So you’re mine?” 

“You’re grinning like an idiot.”

“You’re avoiding the question!”

George hums and leans down, kissing him again. He smiles into it, feeling the way Dream matches him and how soft his lips are. “Of course I’m yours,” he replies after they part. “So long as you’re mine.”

“Always have been,” Dream mutters breathlessly and it’s not the kiss (maybe just a little), but every part of George that takes his breath away.

**Author's Note:**

> apologies if it seems rushed, i had big plans but got a bit lazy orz
> 
> [twitter](https://twitter.com/NETHERW4RT) :)


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